Why do I not believe that?
by HaushinkaWasHere
Summary: Jim Moriarty wasn't supposed to come back with a "Sorry, boys!", but he did. The Semtex wasn't supposed to explode, but it did. John was never supposed to forget everything and everyone after the incident, but he did. What will Sherlock do when John's amnesia has turned him into a total stranger? Multichapter fanfic, not finished.
1. Ambulance sirens and hurried races

_Hello! I'm just really pleased to inform you that this fanfic, that will be multichaptered, is based in one of the posts of the Facebook page "Sherlock, the mess you've made!", so thank you very much for such an inspiration! I recommend you to go and follow this wonderful site. Thank you for choosing my story, remember I don't (sadly) own any of the Sherlock BBC characters, and, please, enjoy this first chapter! Any reviews will be welcome!_

_**HaushinkaWasHere**_

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**Chapter 1: "Ambulance sirens and hurried races"**

The growing smile that Jim was wearing in such an occasion seemed to fall at the sight of the gun lowering to the Semtex jacket that had been previously abandoned on the floor of the dark pool. The silent and shared nod between the doctor and the detective made sense now for the villain. Time seemed to slow down when the moment of pulling the trigger was coming dangerously closer. Breaths forgot to be taken, hearts increasing their paces, mental last words being formulated... No one ever thought three seconds could keep so many actions at the same time. The jacket exploded with a bleeding noise and a painful bomb of light. Their bodies seemed to be made of paper against the wild force of the implosion. Who would have thought that it would actually be made of non-fake explosives? Who would have ever deduced that James Moriarty was going to put himself in such a danger, the excuse of being a psychopath remaining forgotten as a possible explanation even?

Ambulance sirens and hurried races to the surgery fulfilled the next moments. The waiting room was deadly silent, but crowded of muted actions: the hands of the Government man couldn't leave his temple for a single second; the eyes of the landlady wept without control, leaving unquestionable red marks around them; the Detective Inspector's fists were formed by white knuckles which were ready to hit any close wall, or just to hit anything at all. Hours passed until the steps of the man with the news sounded echoed in the white corridor of the hospital. His words made our beloved little awaiting community breath normally again.

**-OoOoO-**

_John. John. John. John. John._

"JOHN!" says finally awakening from his post-surgery sleep.

"Finally. You were being too slow this time" says Mycroft with faked disinterest.

"Where is John? How is him?" In his voice there was a note of horror at the possible answer his brother could provide him.

"He's two rooms away from you, Sherlock. He just broke a few ribs and hit quite roughly his head against the floor. The doctor's thought he had damaged his cranium of seriousness, but it was a superficial issue thankfully. He's out of danger"

At his brothers words Sherlock lays back again against the bed, nerves going down knowing his friend was alive and, most important of all, recovering successfully. Confusing pictures are constantly crossing his mind about the previous moment of the Semtex incident: the trigger, Moriarty's smile dying in his lips, John affirming with his head, his thoughts while his body was in the air...

"Aren't you going to ask me about your diagnosis?"

"Not interested at all" It was difficult to talk normally. The movement his chest made built a hiss of pain, so now that he has been awaken for a couple of minutes he's trying to get used to the feeling, controlling the pressure and voice tone he must use to decrease the pain. "By my own state I suppose I had some ribs of the right side damaged, one of them threatening to hurt my lung. Hopefully the doctors were quick and avoided a possible serious problem. Am I right?" says, coughing slightly at the effort.

"You forgot some little cuts, but they weren't worth to be named. The rest is absolutely correct."

Sherlock nods and remains silent for a couple of seconds, just looking at the ceiling until he decides to break the silence.

"I want to see him".

"You can barely move, Sherlock. Let's not have a row for such incoherence"

"I said I want to see him, Mycroft"

"And I said that you won't be moving from here until you have recovered minimally. Is it understood, dear brother of mine?" says with a firm and angry tone, not raising his voice, though.

The look in Sherlock's face is dark, his eyebrows expressing the anger in him, as he starts sitting himself up with a painful facial expression. Not wanting to argue in such a moment, rolling his eyes and quickly getting up, Mycroft adds:

"For God's sake! Wait here, I'll get a wheelchair"

In less than a minute the older Holmes brother is back with a wheelchair and is helping his little brother, one arm over his shoulder, the walk being a challenge. The distance of two doors seems infinite to Sherlock. Inside John's room, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade are sitting down, one at each side of his friend. He is fully awake, thing that makes Sherlock smile wide. But he knows something is wrong. The Detective Inspector and the landlady's faces have that "something" that confirms Sherlock's deduction. With his weak arms makes the wheelchair come closer to John's bed, being now able to totally see his face.

"John, I'm so sorry" it's the first thing he says. In response, John looks at him, with... Is that confusion in his eyes?

"Excuse me, do I know you?"

"Joking even after being unconscious for hours? We all can see you were a war man" says chuckling and hissing after, painfully.

"What? _War man_? Who are you? Why do I know no one in this bloody room? And why am I here?"

Sherlock's face freezes. Mycroft's contracts in a horror expression.

"This can't be happening" says Mrs. Hudson, her voice cracking.

The detective's hands clench, shaking slightly. His throat is suddenly blocked by a knot. John had forgotten everything. This wasn't any kind of joke. John had forgotten his years in Afghanistan. John had forgotten his friends. John had forgotten his late good memories... But most important of all: John had forgotten him.

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_I'd adore knowing your opinions! I'll try to be as quick as I can in updating this story. And sorry if there are any grammar mistakes all along the text, English isn't my mother tongue and I try my best. Thank you once again!_


	2. Confusing knots

_Hello again! Thanks again to ALL the lovely admins of the Facebook page "Sherlooc, the mess you've made" just for being so GREAT AND AWESOME, I recommend you all to go and check them a visit. Second, but not less important, thank you so much for all the reviews and favourites, you are the ones who, after all, make this possible. I hope you like this second chapter as much, at least, as you liked the first one! I'll try to update it as soon as possible, because I am revising more than ever... College finals, daaaaaaamn! Love and endless hugs,_

_**HaushinkaWasHere**_

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**Chapter 2: "Confusing knots"**

Sherlock's eyes never close at night since John didn't recognize him. His mind is in constant functioning, trying to bring his friend back but, most of all, trying to keep a cold and frozen expression to not show to anyone how broken he is. It has been three days since the first contact with him. Although the doctor was still confused about all the people around him, he allowed Sherlock a quick visit every day. They merely talked, and if they did it was about neutral issues which drove to nothing at all. In front of John's bed, when the blonde man was looking through the window... Better said, when Sherlock was sure that no one was actually seeing him, he let his emotions exit silently. He never showed any, and he would continue like that.

"How is John doing?" says his brother, playing with his umbrella unconsciously.

"The doctor's said he has amnesia, which was obvious. However, they were vague when I asked if it would be permanent or not."

"Being vague with prescriptions and diagnosis is a nearly official subject in the Medicine degree" chuckles sarcastically the older Holmes.

"He's closing himself. He seems to be permanently in deep thought, but I don't know why. I know you will probably say that it is because of the shock and the adaptation process to his new state. But I know that's not the only reason. The problem is-" he clears his throat before trying again, keeping his voice steady "The problem is that he doesn't trust me. And he won't in a long time."

"It won't be permanent."

"We don't know, Mycroft." He says, lowering his eyes, feeling his bottom lip shaking slightly. "I can't see him like that. I am not a stranger. He is my friend."

"We both know that's not totally true."

"I'm not going to discuss with you about what John Watson is for me." His words are cutting, like the best of the knives.

The detective from the outside seems to have lost a good friend of his. But what if we go deeper? What will we find? We can't imagine. Maybe it's all dark, empty, aching for such a loss. Or maybe he feels far worse than that. Because, after all, who knows what is going on in Sherlock Holmes' heart?

"This time I have no immediate answers to fix this, I'm sorry to tell. He could wake up any day and suddenly remember everything. But no one knows how long it will take or if it will ever happen."

"I'll be visiting him every day. I won't be giving up so easily. I have to save him."

"What if nothing is the same again?"

"I'll try my best. I need to bring him back." Says the tall man, able now to get up and walk properly by himself.

"I told you, Sherlock." says without looking at him before the detective leaves the room.

"You told me what?"

"That caring was not an advantage."

"I don't need your daily visits. You can leave now."

Deeply, he knows his brother is right. But not with John. John is... How could he describe it? Since their first question, "Afghanistan or Iraq?", Sherlock knew his life would never be the same if that man suddenly disappeared of his existence. He always knew it, and now he has confirmed these first thoughts. Two knocks before entering the room.

"Glad you are awake."

"The food here is rubbish." Says John with a polite smile.

"Generally life in a hospital is rubbish. How are you feeling?"

"Physically? Much better. Mentally? I am a serious mess." Says shaking his head. When he looks up at Sherlock his smile has disappeared, being occupied by a broken expression. "I can't understand a single thing, S-" stops, thinking before talking again. "Was it Sherlock? I'm terrible with names."

"Y-Yes, it is." He can't avoid his voice cracking this time, quickly clearing his throat.

"I have woken up, confused, alone but surrounded by people I know of nothing. I don't even know where I lived before this, I don't even know what happened. And I feel angry, tired and confused at the same time. I-I don't know what to do, or who I can trust. I just have vague feelings and guessing, which I don't know where they come from either." Hides his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking softly. Sherlock's insides are breaking apart, his face completely free of any possible mask to hide his feelings.

"W-What kind of feelings and guessing are you referring to?" says nearly whispering it. When John hears his words, he discovers his face again, looking directly at Sherlock.

"I'm angry that I can't remember a single thing about you. But... But I feel like I know you. I feel like you are special to me." His eyes are bright at such a moment. And Sherlock's heart is beating harder than ever.

"Well, I'm your friend, or, as you used to say, your best friend, John" merely adds the detective. Suddenly, John chuckles, bitterly, shaking his head.

"Then, why do I not believe that?"

A sudden silence fills the room, only bright eyes remaining in their positions: one into the other's. The only things Sherlock can hear are the beats of his heart, racing wildly. A knot is placed in his throat, in his stomach... Everything is a knot, a confusing knot: his life, his feelings, his whole "human error", his thoughts... Anything, absolutely anything that can include the two magic words: John Watson.

Some tears start threatening to fall down the detective's cheeks... But not only the detective's. Without a sound or a word, the taller man gets up and walks to the door, but before leaving, not able to look at the man he has been in love with since the day he was aware of his existence, says with his voice cracked:

"I'm sorry John"


End file.
